


Little Words

by hermesbabie



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, BUT JUST A LITTLE LIKE FOR TWO SECONDS, Children, Fluff, I don't know how to tag this lol, It's just sylvix but with kids, M/M, Post-Canon, no beta we die like Glenn, that's it that's the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 10:46:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29349141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hermesbabie/pseuds/hermesbabie
Summary: After war, at long last, peace. At least until the little ones learn how to walk. They should have expected no less- they aretheirchildren after all.-*bursts into your house with a stack of papers* sylvix babies,
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 1
Kudos: 33





	Little Words

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kabieee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kabieee/gifts).



> Like, one day ago I wrote about theoretical sylvix babymaking. And then me and [Kabie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kabieee) talked. And now I am writing about their kids. God gave me hands and this is what I want to do with them, that’s on him.
> 
> *Features a trans interpretation of Sylvain, written by a transmasculine person. The children in this story are his biological children with Felix. There are no graphic descriptions of pregnancy or birth, just an acknowledgement that Sylvain delivered these children.  
> *Title from “Little Words” by The Happy Fits (just like its smutty predecessor!)

“She’s… so small.” 

Felix chuckles brightly, snuggling closer against Sylvain’s shoulder, pressing a kiss to the junction between there and his neck. “Mischa was too, once.”

“ _Was_ he?” Sylvain balks, voice dry and fatigued, “He was so much- I dunno, squishier?” His daughter- _their_ daughter, little Calina, they’d decided to call her -opens her eyes at him for the first time. He cannot suppress a smile. They are amber, like Felix’s, framed by dark lashes that flutter in disagreement with the candlelight around her. She pouts. 

“Oh goddess, Felix. She looks just like you!” Sylvain laughs, earning a beleaguered huff from his husband. He lifts her to face the two of them from where she had been resting on his chest, _rather comfortably, thank you_ , and she blows a puff of air from between her lips, a little furrow on her brow. The both of them gasp, Felix reaching out a hand to hold her tiny face in his hand. It fits just in his palm, like it was made to be there. He knows he will cry at some point- he had cried for hours when Mikhail was born, face alternately buried in Sylvain’s hair or against the blanket they’d swaddled their son in. The pride he feels at having brought such a sourpuss into the world is nearly unbearable. 

“Good girl! Calina, my little girl, can you say ‘shut up’?” Sylvain coos. The nurse who helped deliver her gently reminds him that she was born fifteen minutes ago.

“Don’t worry, Syl, she’s got time to learn,” Felix says softly, sincerely. 

Mikhail- Mischa, affectionately- is only two years old, but is undoubtedly Sylvain’s son. At ten months old, he’d broken out of his crib and been found by a servant in the hallway, babbling happily. Two nights later, he did it again, this time making as far as Sylvain and Felix’s bedroom, before falling forward into their closed door with a thunk - a stunt that ended with several stitches and two terrified new parents. Sylvain had comforted his husband then, reminding him that a good half of his own plentiful scars were the result of stupidity, rather than war. 

He’d been warned that toddlers had boundless energy, of course, but it was beyond what he could have imagined. Now more stable on his feet, Mischa sprints from room to room in the estate, mounts their long-suffering hound like a horse and rides him through the dining hall, and knows the infirmary staff by name and sight. When he has finally worn himself out, he is sweeter than anything, refusing to fall asleep without a hug from both his fathers, and his favorite nursemaid, and whoever had patched up that day’s scrapes and bruises, and the dog.

“Sirs?” comes a voice on the other side of the door, “The young lord would like to meet his sister.”

“Why is the young lord awake?” Felix asks quickly, “Tell him she’s asleep, as he should be. He’ll meet her in the morning, when everyone’s got a bit more energy.” 

“Yes, sir,” the voice says. Before he can leave, Felix interjects once more:

“Although- her name is Calina. Tell him that much, and that she’s got dark hair. And that she’s extremely small. That should keep his mind occupied until he passes out.” 

“Very good, sir.” The voice chuckles warmly before it is gone. Soon after, the nurse and her team dismiss themselves, staying in earshot for the night but giving the family their privacy. Calina is, in fact, asleep now, snoring gently.

“She _snores_ , Felya!,” Sylvain exclaims, his voice quiet but quaking with emotion, “Like _you_!” 

Felix snorts. “You hate that I snore.”

“Right, but it’s cute when she does it. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to hate a thing about her,” Sylvain muses, rocking her gently in his arms. He hums something lightly, a song his own mother had once sung to him, and Felix allows the tears to fall as he beholds them- his husband, his love, and their daughter, their angel.

-

He hasn’t picked up a sword- a real one, not one of those dull, blunted things used for training- in nearly a decade when he gets word of a mercenary group spotted a few miles from the estate. Ten or fifteen men, well armed, under no banner, and moving in their direction. Sylvain grabs his arm before he leaves.

“Don’t,” he says softly, “Let the patrol take care of this. You wanna protect us, then stay here.”

Felix shakes his head, and tries to ignore Calina, now four, clung to Sylvain’s leg and looking up at him. “I’d die before I let them get this far,” he grunts.

“ _Die?!_ ” 

He hadn’t noticed Mischa, flaming red hair untamed and sticking out at odd angles, in the doorway behind Sylvain. He had been playing in the garden before the alarm was sounded. Sylvain and Felix both tense at the exclamation, and Calina buries her face in Sylvain’s cloak, whimpering.

“No one’s gonna die, Mischa,” Felix soothes coarsely, “I just have to go take care of something. I’ll be back before dinner, I promise. Stay with papa and your sister.”

Sylvain’s hand is still insistently on his arm. When he looks in his eyes, he sees nothing short of desperation. He speaks as lowly as he can to keep the little ones out of the conversation.

“Felix. Don’t do this. Don’t risk it. It’s not just me that needs you anymore.”

He feels his heart break slightly at that. Briefly, for it is as long as he can bear, he imagines Sylvain having to explain why he hadn’t come home. _Because he was stupid_ , would be fair. _Because he was prideful. Because he had more love in his heart than he knew what to do with. Because it used to be all he was good for. Because he couldn’t fathom losing you._

He recalls the look in his father’s eyes when Glenn’s body came home without his soul. 

His sword is set aside, and Calina swept into his arms as he bounces her and shushes her. Sylvain sighs in relief, and gathers Mischa in his arms as well. 

“I know it’s a day early, Calina, but… what do you say we sample your birthday cake? Make sure it’s just how you like it?” he asks, finally relaxing when he sees her smile, slight and gentle like his own. They ply their children with sweets and smear cream on each others’ faces to the delighted shrieks of the little ones. 

The mercenaries are pushed back without incident. 

-

“Dad, I’m not sure about this.”

Calina, nine years old, sits uneasily on Heather, the gentlest horse in the stable. She clings on as if in fear for her life, one hand on the saddle and another threaded through Heather’s coffee-colored mane (Heather cares not). In the distance, the sounds of Mischa’s laughter and Sylvain’s cheering.

He was a better man than to tell her it was her papa’s fault, and that he wouldn’t have ever ridden a horse himself if it weren’t for the man’s pleading (something about _“It’ll be something we can do as a family!”_ had gotten him sentimental enough to agree). Mischa had taken to it instantly- his energy (no, it hadn’t waned yet) meshed well with the stamina of Oriel, the thoroughbred he’d taken a liking to. He settles for, as always, doing what he thought would make her happy.

“Would you rather just ride with me today?” 

She nods, and he nudges her forward before climbing up behind her. “It’s okay,” he lulls, taking the reins and urging them forward, “I’m not a fan either.” She is not completely relaxed, still carrying tension in her shoulders and holding onto the saddle for dear life, but it is better than it was.

They meet Sylvain and Mischa already on the trail, Mischa slightly ahead. 

“Hey!” Sylvain hollers back to them, “Sorry, someone got a little excited. Not feelin’ it today, big girl?”

Calina shakes her head, a little embarrassed. “Big girl” was a relatively new entry on the ever-expanding list of Sylvain’s pet names for his children. She wondered if it might be slightly mocking, given her actual size, and rolled her eyes when he finally turned away from her. Felix’s heart swelled with pride.

They reached their destination about a half hour later- a clearing in the nearby forest, complete with bubbling creek and patches of white and lilac wildflowers around the bases of the firm trees. When they were older, Felix might tell his children that he realized he loved Sylvain here, when they were scarcely older than them. He knew Sylvain would have a retort- _“and then he didn’t tell me for ten years!”_ or something of that nature- and he knew that he would deserve it, and that Mischa would laugh good-naturedly and Calina would pretend to gag.

For today, he would simply relax with his family, and skip stones, and pretend to be annoyed when Sylvain tossed a sloppily-made crown of flowers onto his head like it was a festival game. He would cut the crust of Calina’s sandwich off for her and claw out the pits from the cherries.

Often, in his younger years, he had felt that his heart was too full, that at any moment it could burst and leave him destroyed- love for Sylvain, for Mischa, and for Calina all piled up and made for a heaviness he knew not how to handle. What could he do with so much love? 

This was the answer. Take it all in, and give it all right back. Hold Sylvain’s hand and brush his thumb over his knuckles as the little ones played in the creek, dry their feet off when the sun began to set, and carry them to bed when they arrived home, placing kisses on their cheeks that their unconscious selves would not know.

Sliding under his own blankets, Sylvain’s chest firm and warm against his back, he wonders, briefly, if it is all real.

Sylvain coughs and bonks his head directly into his spine, then laughs too hard to apologize. 

Alright, it’s real.

**Author's Note:**

> I had to google if babies had eyelashes because I’ve never met one and idk, I thought maybe they didn’t.
> 
> I’m on [twitter](https://twitter.com/hermesbabie) (18+ please) posting hades and fe3h nonsense !!


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